


Dacha

by gracca_amorosa



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: Choking, Oral Sex, Other, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:54:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28201200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracca_amorosa/pseuds/gracca_amorosa
Summary: Vasily leaves his hand on you, and you remember what you did in this room just a few weeks ago, making you blush.“My wife will be away for a few days,” he says without waiting.“I know, I heard,” you reply, breathless. He looks your face over, and you know you are red hot and tensely coiled. He smiles a lopsided smile.“Would you like to join me this weekend, at my dacha?”The thought is headier than alcohol and you bite your lip hard to keep concentrating on the present, instead of leaping forward to this tantalizing future.“I would love that very much,” you say.
Relationships: Vasily Borgov/Reader, Vasily Borgov/Self-Insert
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	Dacha

**Author's Note:**

> for Sasha: writing this felt like sinning, but here we are

Kolya had insisted on teaching himself chess, you still don’t know why exactly, other than the possible fame (and the struggle that comes with that fame, you remind him often - always, in the background, the struggle). He discovered it when he was young, practicing for hours a week, sometimes hours a day, and you picked up just enough from him to play sometimes. After a while you lose every time. After a while, he decided he wanted to play in actual tournaments, learn in official clubs, and he was good enough to do it. Kolya won and won and won, and you supported him. You still support him, going to his practices whether at the public hall or the more intimate gatherings in homes, and you volunteer to tidy the hall after practices are done, not for pay but to feel included in something your best friend was passionate about. 

This is how you meet Vasily Borgov. 

In the hall he paces the room like a large cat or a watchful dog, seeing everything and smiling rarely. The number two and three players, Laev and Zaitsev, are all serious conversation - but for old Luchenko or Girev, the boy, he is soft and kind, and this hits something deep within you like a bell that will not stop ringing. He does not often speak to Kolya since he is not yet at that level of play and he only barely acknowledges your existence, at first. But Kolya learns, and people take notice, and because you are there, always helpful, you get noticed too. 

You stand beside Kolya as he plays and Borgov watches him - and then he watches you, too. Just a little, but with this new acknowledgement he gets close enough that you can see now that his eyes are blue. That he has faint dark circles under his eyes. Dimples. You put a hand on Kolya’s shoulder, leaning in to whisper to him, and you can see Borgov’s eyes flick to you, then back to the board.

You dress well, nothing dramatic but enough to catch the eye, and catch it does. Borgov is not the only one that finds you now in your spot always lurking at the edge of things, but his is the only glance you return, satisfied at his swift looking away and small grimace-smile, tamped down before anyone else can see. 

You begin pacing the room like a large cat, like a watchful dog. You know enough by now to see when someone has made a mistake, but the real goal is only to circle Vasily Borgov and to have him circle you. You join conversations after practice is done, a circle of players and spouses and you, joining in and satisfied only when Borgov notices your intelligent comment or witty remark, and gives you that ever-elusive smile.

Eventually Kolya is invited into homes for practices or parties, and you are invited too. Luchenko at least invites you personally, speaking to you as if you know what you’re doing and deserve to be there too. Borgov invites you through Kolya. He has only spoken to you once or twice for any length of time but you see him watching you - you are sure he sees you watching him.

In Luchenko’s flat things are loose and friendly, the way they’re not allowed to be in the public practice hall. Vodka and tea are passed around in equal measure, and as much as everyone was fond of the boy, Georgi Girev was not invited to come - nor were spouses; this was just for them. You were lucky enough to come along because you were helpful in the hall, and you silently thanked your hours of tidying for being useful after all.

You mostly stay in the kitchen, leaned against the counter, as the others mill about. You take all of them in like a particularly hungry hawk and speak only when spoken to. You feel like you are eavesdropping on a private conversation - which, you suppose, in a way you are.

Borgov wanders between rooms and between conversations and everyone wants a word with him. Being the best player in the world had many perks, but many downsides too - privacy was not often to be had. You watch him as he stands from the small kitchen table and stretches, and he sees you; you smile what you hope is an understanding smile, and he smirks as he turns away. You bite your lip, quickly swallow the rest of your tea. Your heart beats in your throat.

As the night wears on the party thins, and soon you are the only one left in the kitchen, the handful of others in the living room, sitting on the floor around a small, low table and a chess board, playing old games over and over. Borgov stands above them, arms crossed, face impassive, tired. You study his face like he studies the board.

He cocks his head just slightly like a dog hearing a high-pitched note, then slowly he turns and walks to the kitchen, looking away from the board at the last possible second but then looking at you, not taking his eyes away. You sit at the table, pour two glasses of wine - at best, he takes the hint; worst, you have more wine to drown your embarrassment.

He sits, and takes the cup.

For a moment, silence.

“I never really know what’s going on,” you say, just to fill the void. “I can tell when someone messes up now, I couldn’t even do that before.” You flick a glance sideways at him and he is smiling at you, gently, neck flushed and just a little drunk.

“You’re learning,” he said, softer than you imagined from that severe, lined face. “All any of us want is for people to learn.”

“And to win,” you reply, tipping your glass to him, and he surprises you by touching his rim to yours.

“Yes, always to win. It’s a battle, you know. Chess is violence; against yourself and against your opponent.” He licks his lips. Hearing Vasily Borgov talk about violence makes your breath catch in your throat. You look at his hands - grandmaster’s hands, but rough around the edges. You want to touch them. You want to feel them in your mouth, in you. You shake your head hard, trying to stop, and he looks at you, amused.

“I mean this only figuratively, you understand. Mostly, at least.” He gives a one-shouldered shrug.

“Of course. I would never doubt it.” You feel the blush creep up your neck, your cheeks, as he stares at you unblinking over his glass. You change the subject.

You can’t remember what else you talk about that night, you only remember Borgov sitting very close and pouring you a second glass of wine, rolling up his sleeves and exposing muscular forearms - the other masters were almost to a one soft, or slight. Borgov is soft, you can see the lines of him through the front of his shirt, but you can tell he is strong too, and you want to feel it. 

Kolya comes to get you eventually, and leaving Borgov feels like leaving a light source.

“I’ll see you at our next practice,” he says softly, and you nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

When Kolya drops you off at your flat you rush up the stairs and fumble with the keys. You slam the door behind you, throwing off your coat and shoes, falling onto your fraying couch, thinking of the tiny details you soaked in for who knew how many hours while speaking with Borgov. How his features were rearranged with smiles or frowns, how his brow creased when he was thinking hard. How even when drunk he was highly intelligent.

You stand too quickly and get dizzy, stumbling to your room and thankful your roommates aren’t awake right now to see you fumble like this. You fall into bed and flip over, sliding out of your clothes, so glad your lights are off and your curtains are drawn. You close your eyes, you touch yourself, you think of Vasily Borgov.

You wake up groggy, walls still spinning around you, stinking of sex. Today is a tournament, and Kolya is determined to win - you promised him you would go, so you dress, and you walk as quickly as you can to the hall.

You walk in, breathing hard and flushed, and eyes turn to you as you close the door behind you. Borgov looks up to you, raises an eyebrow, drops his gaze. You find Kolya in the line and stand diligently beside him, concentrating so hard on the moving pieces that you wonder if your head will explode from the hangover or your eyes will permanently cross from staring first. Kolya fails out midway through, respectable enough, good enough to move on to the next tournament, and the two of you stay and watch as Borgov destroys one opponent after another until he is, of course, declared the victor.

This is the beginning of the tournament season that will last the better part of a year. This is the beginning of the affair.

Borgov’s wife (Olga, you learn from her one night as you sit in someone’s living room and pretend to know things about chess) is always there, watching her husband play, and you feel guilty about this, but you don’t stop trying to see him. In tournaments around the country the men who just played go down to the hotel bar and commiserate, accompanied by friends and spouses for a while until they go to bed one by one, and you are left, and he is left. He sits near the end of the otherwise empty counter, staring into his drink, and you think about leaving but you get closer instead. 

He looks up at you when you get into his field of vision and he smirks.

“You’re always out so late,” he says into his glass, finishing off the vodka. 

“I can never sleep well,” you shrug, slide onto the stool next to his, order your own vodka and a replacement for him. “Too much to think about, not enough hours in the day.” You slide your glass towards him, and he slides his new one to yours, clinking almost loudly in the quiet room. 

“Did you have fun? Watching?” He doesn’t look at you as he asks, but you want there to be more: did you have fun watching me?

“I always have fun, it’s why I come back.”

“Hm.”

“Your wife, Olga? She says she doesn’t know as much as most of you but she enjoys watching your talent at work. I can relate to that.”

“You enjoy watching me be talented?”

“What if I say I do?”

He looks at you, and you can see him swallow before he looks away. His throat so close you can taste it.

“My wife and son come with me for many reasons,” he says, focusing on his family and not you, and you are glad for that at least for now. “They enjoy watching me win, yes, but…” He doesn’t look up but he moves his head sideways, and you see two men sitting in a far corner, so obviously not looking at you that you know they are only looking at you. You nod.  
This night ends in relative peace, talking about the games and youths playing chess and the bitter winter you were about to enter. But you find him again, and again, and you talk about more. 

Eventually he begins looking for you, too - or at least, your chance meetings become more frequent, and it’s more often him finding you and sitting by you and speaking to you. He is not a particularly chatty man, you know this by now, but even the silences become comfortable, even the intrusions by fellow players or even occasionally fans become normal. Before it was stress when people came upon you together at the bar or in one of the slightly uncomfortable couches in the lobby - or more intriguing for you, if you end up alone in the practice hall after hours, you staying to help clean up the boards and him coming back because he lost something that he never actually looks for. 

These are the ones you like: most of the lights in the room are off and the shadows slice down his face and let only the shine of his eyes through. You stand close, he helps put the pieces away into the little slots in the nicer boards or just thrown into bags for the cheaper ones, and when you hand each other pieces for sorting your fingers touch just momentarily, and are apart with a quickness.

In Moscow for a tournament you are already two drinks in, alone on a too-soft couch in the hotel bar, when he shows up again. You hadn’t had time to see him play today; Kolya had done surprisingly well in this first half of the tournament, and you are quite proud of him for that.

When Vasily slides into the seat closest to you, he has wine in his hand. He is steady, always, so you have no way of knowing if he’s been drinking already, but you pretend he has just to even the playing field.

“I assume you did well?” you start, and he smiles at you, and you almost gasp.

“I always do well, you know that.”

“Everyone else went to a restaurant down the street,” you say, pointing in the vague direction you think they went. “If you would prefer.”

Vasily sits and drinks for a moment. He looks towards you but not at you. He holds the wine in his mouth a long time before swallowing.

“I would rather be here,” he says finally. And you don’t know what to say. He shifts, leaning towards you, still not looking.

“You are drawing me in,” he whispers, making you lean in too. Your faces are closer than ever before, and you think you can feel the nervous heat off him, but it might just be you, or the drink.

“You are drawing me in, and I don’t know how to stop you.”

You stop breathing. He looks up slowly, into your eyes, and it is a physical force pressing into you. If you wanted you could reach out and trace the lines of his lips or his deep dimples, run fingers through his hair. Thick arousal runs through you, between your legs and your tingling fingers. You almost reach for him.

He rubs his knuckles into his mouth, drinks the rest of the wine in one long swallow, leaves you there on the couch to muddle through what just happened. All you really know is you want to touch him. Want him to touch you.

You lay awake, thinking of him, remembering: You are drawing me in, and I don’t know how to stop you. There is a knock on your door, and he is there.

He pushes you back into the room and throws the door closed behind him, kissing you hard and fast, hands tangled in your hair and fingers pressing into your hair. You say no words now, the only way you’ve been able to connect until now; it’s all flesh on flesh and hard movements. He falls on you, onto the bed, stopping briefly to look you over. You run a hand up his arm, without jacket and with sleeves rolled up, finding his palm, his fingers, pressing your thumb into his wedding ring. He freezes. His eyes bore into you like knives. He pulls his hand away, shakes his head once, buries his face in your neck.

One of his knees presses between your legs and you throb against the pressure. You force your hands up between you, unbuttoning his shirt as he bites and sucks down your neck, pulling up your shirt and exposing all flesh. You gasp at his touch, his fingers cold, and he pulls up just enough to take off his shirt, take off yours. His chest presses into yours. You can feel him, hard, against your thigh.

Up once again to throw off pants and then he is down, head between your legs, and his mouth is a shock where it lands. Every time you shudder, too close to the edge, he slows, stops, waits for you to calm, starts again. Over and over he brings you to the edge, then - he slides up from between your legs, presses his fingers into you, slides his cock into you.

Your groan is cut off by his hand on your neck, pressing down, his thumb on your mouth, sliding between your lips as he thrusts hard. Above you he is shadow, soft in parts but hard beneath, and his pace picks up as he gets closer and closer, looking at you but not kissing or caressing, fucking you down and down and then he comes in you, and you moments after.

He stays in you a moment, catching his breath, sliding his fingers down your chest as he looks at every naked inch of you, then he is out and you are cold in his absence, sitting up as he is sliding on his trousers.

“You have to go so soon?” you ask. “Back to your wife?” When he looks at you he’s cool again, like he hasn’t been in so long, and you meant your words to be biting but do not like this upset in their wake. 

“Yes, to my wife, Olga. You talked to her just the other day about opera, didn’t you?” The question was cutting in return, and guilt bites into you, and into him as well.

He leaves you there, naked, tired, longing and imagining next time. If he ever allowed a next time.

There are other games, other practices that you go to where you glance at him, he glances at you, he glances away. There are fewer words exchanged, and as far as you can tell he is never in the bar alone again. He gives you no place to see him alone for any length of time, no matter how hard you look for it. 

But there are moments - in a hotel elevator full of tourists, both standing in the back close, very close, so close you can feel the warmth of him. In the practice hall stairwells, him a few steps in front of you, slowing so you match pace, congratulating each other on a good practice or not saying a word. Fingers touching briefly in the bend of the handrail.

You stay behind in the hall one night, cleaning as always, mind away to brushed fingers and rough mouths. You are in the half-dark, as many lights off as you can while still seeing all the pieces, fumbling one every so often with shaky fingers. The wooden pieces clatter to the floor loudly in the silence, sliding away and under tables where you have to ferret them out as best you can. 

The door behind you opens and you flinch, dropping your piece.

“Shit,” you whisper, dropping to your knees and sliding under the table. You search for a moment before you see it out in the open, are reaching for it when a shiny black shoe taps down on it, holding it in place. You look up from your knees and it’s him - Vasily - standing above you with hands in his pockets, shirtsleeves rolled up on his forearms. You aren’t sure if you remember how to breathe.

He says not a word, taking his foot off the piece slowly, and you take it, drop it again, grab it back and slam it back onto the table. You move to stand and Vasily shifts towards you, hands still in pockets. You stay down. Your only indication that he is nervous is his fast, shallow breathing. For a moment all is still.

You press your mouth to his zipper, and he lets out a sharp breath. He grabs your hair, presses you in harder until it’s almost difficult to breathe, lets go - 

Your already-shaky fingers struggle at his zipper but he doesn’t help you and he doesn’t let you go and when you slide his cock out it’s already half-hard and when you slide your lips around him, your tongue down his shaft, he twitches, exhales hard.

He lets you lead but his hand never leaves your head and when his breathing grows labored he presses into you harder and deeper, holds you there until you breathe sharp through your nose, lets you go. You work faster and he presses deeper and deeper, and holds you steady as he comes in your mouth. The whole thing lasts only a handful of frantic minutes but it leaves you both panting.

He draws you up by your hair, presses you back into the table and you lift yourself onto it, and his face is pressed into the hollow of your neck as his hand works between your thighs - his touch aches, his mouth is hot on your skin, you close your eyes and let him work until you too are overwhelmed, and come for him.

He stays in your shoulder for a moment, hand still between your legs, catching his breath and letting you catch yours. When you pull apart he looks at you so softly you don’t know what to do, reach out and touch his lips, and he smiles, so sweetly.

“I’m sorry I have been so rude,” he whispers into your fingers. 

“Nothing to apologize for,” you whisper back.

“Would you like to join me for a drink? That’s what I came here to ask,” he says as he straightens his clothes and helps you to your feet.

“I would love to,” you reply, a little nod at the door, and you leave side by side.

When you hear Vasily mention, off-hand, that his wife Olga is going to visit family for a few days, you are disappointed that you will miss him for the regular weekend practices.

When you hear Vasily say that he will not be going with her and their son, staying to practice for the tournament that was only a week away instead, your heart drops to your knees. Him, without his wife, without his son - but you, here. After sharing a drink and then dinner a few weeks before things were normal again, or as normal as these things ever got with you. You are thrilled at the prospect, aroused at the prospect. You are lost in thought as you put up the boards after practice, when there is a hand firm on your shoulder.

Vasily leaves his hand on you, and you remember what you did in this room just a few weeks ago, making you blush.

“My wife will be away for a few days,” he says without waiting.

“I know, I heard,” you reply, breathless. He looks your face over, and you know you are red hot and tensely coiled. He smiles a lopsided smile.

“Would you like to join me this weekend, at my dacha?”

The thought is headier than alcohol and you bite your lip hard to keep concentrating on the present, instead of leaping forward to this tantalizing future.

“I would love that very much,” you say, and he smiles, and nods, and asks you once more to join him for a drink.

The drive to the dacha is peaceful, quiet, tense. Everything is green and new and smells of growing, and the two of you do not know how to be casual together yet. This is your first time alone together and seeing Vasily in his thick, dark turtleneck still makes blood rush in your ears. He looks like a man instead of a postcard for Soviet chess players, and without thinking you reach over and slide a hand down his trousered thigh, pressing fingers hard into his muscular leg. You feel him tense, see his eyes flutter closed only momentarily, and one hand leaves the wheel just long enough to press your hand harder into him, sliding your fingers further between his legs.

You are breathless as you feel him getting hard under your movements, but his eyes never leave the road and his pulse does not seem to quicken. He forces himself to breathe steadily as you slide up and down him, and you look away too, feigning casual and calm, locking your elbows into your sides to stop yourself from shivering in your need.

He pulls up to a light green building and parks in the little drive, but his hands do not leave the wheel. You pause only a second when he shakes his head and says, “Keep going,” in a voice you recognized as aroused, as close to the edge. You manage to unbutton him one-handed, still looking out front just as he is, and reaches down to free himself before clamping down again on the wheel.

Only now does his breathing get ragged, as your cool hand moves up and down him, fingers sliding down his whole length clumsily at this angle, but effectively - soon he comes for you, holding his breath at release, sighing deeply as he finishes rocking into your fist. His arms relax and slide down the wheel, holding on by just a couple fingers, and he closes his eyes and lays back in the seat. When you release him he looks at you, and you can see the flush, the set of his lined face, and you stick two fingers into your mouth as far as they will go, tasting him. His lips part like he wants to speak, but instead he just reaches into his pocket and hands you his handkerchief.

You try to think of something to say, anything, as you clean yourself off and then hand him the rag so he can do the same - he grabs your wrist and pulls you in towards him, kissing you briefly, lightly, before letting you go again.

“Already I owe you a favor,” he says with a lopsided grin, and you decide you could live in that smile forever if he would let you.

“No favors,” you whisper. “Only gifts. That was just a present for you. I also help with dishes, if asked nicely enough.” 

When he looks at you this time he really looks at you, and his smile is full and genuine.

“Good, because I hate washing dishes.” 

You both bundle out of the car, each with a small bag but not much else, and his keyring jingles as he searches for the correct key. When he finds it the door opens with a small crunch, unused for so many months, and - you are not particularly shocked by what you see past Vasily’s shoulder.

The floor is warm-colored wood, faded in places that are often walked - front door to den, den to kitchen - and the art and objects on the walls are a mixture of typical handicrafts that a family collects over time and objects obviously from visits abroad. You peek into the den and see well-worn furniture and a single chess set on the coffee table whose pieces were so well loved that their features are almost gone.

You hear Vasily say something from another room, and when you find the bedroom you become shy. You just made Vasily come in his car in the driveway, but seeing the bed you will be sharing later that night was something different entirely. It was not a hotel, or a quick tryst in a stairwell, it was his bed. It is his and his wife’s bed.

You realize you are both staring at the bed, not moving. Vasily’s frown cuts deep, and you are struck by how his face looks like it was built to deliver bad news. But you also knew it smiling, and soft and sleepy, and steely in concentration.

You slip to the vacant side of the bed and place your bag softly on the pillow that he put out for you, and his face slides away from you but he puts his bag next to yours. This makes you feel some way, but you aren’t sure exactly what it is: you know he shares this bed with his wife, and you wonder if the realization of what he’s been doing with you has finally hit him. Your eyes follow him as he leaves the room, and you decide you don’t much care. The damage has already been done, he’s already an adulterer - what’s a few more pleasant nights on top of that?

You follow him out a minute after and hear the kettle clatter on the stove. You peek in the few other doors, end up stopping at what has to be his office, though you never expected him to have one. What does Vasily Borgov need an office for? Fan mail, secret practices? Peace from family and guests?

A desk and chair sit in front of a wall of shabby bookshelves, shelves bowed with years worth of weight from rows and rows of chess books, history books, some fiction. Propped up in some corners are plaques or small trophies with his name engraved on them, and a chess board with storage, folded in half, sitting on top the four king and queen pieces done in marble. 

The desk is tidy but full of papers and pencils and a very small chess board with pegs instead of real pieces, and you sit in the chair, hearing the kettle whistle. You peer at the little board, trying to figure out the moves, and startle when there’s a knock on the open door. Vasily is standing there, smirking, two cups in one hand. 

He comes into the room and slides the tea onto the desk, eyes never leaving yours, and you cannot look away. His face grows stern the longer you sit, and you begin to panic. You’ve messed up, you ruined it by being too familiar - 

“I’m sorry, Vasya, I was curious,” you say, getting up and moving to the front of the desk, face hot and heart pounding. “I wanted to know what the game was on your desk - I didn’t figure it out, but black looks like they’re in trouble-“

He puts a hand at your neck and you can feel your pulse against his palm. His thumb slides over your mouth to stop you talking, and you are wound so tight you feel close to breaking. His breathing is steady but deep and he never looks away, inching closer and closer until you can feel his heat, see the lines beside his eyes, then feel the press of him, already hard, between your legs. You gasp at the pressure and the tip of his thumb slides between your open lips. You touch your tongue to the pad as he presses your thighs almost painfully into the desk, and this wet pressure is what finally makes his breath hitch. 

You lift yourself up onto the desk and rock back just enough to slide down your pants, his one hand never leaving your neck, the other undoing his own pants and freeing himself. Then he’s grabbing your hair and kissing you hard, pressing together, him pressing into you. You ball your fists into his shirt and pull him deeper into you and the rhythm you make is hard, almost frantic, making the desk rattle as your mouth never leaves his.

You feel yourself get close to climax, feel your legs shaking as they wrap around his waist, but before you can come he stops, pulls away, pulls out. He lifts you easily with strong arms and drops to his knees, pressing you down onto the rug on the floor. From here the hand at your throat can press harder, tumb pressed into the soft underside of your chin and forcing your head back, and you close your eyes and let the feeling of his weight against you, his cock inside you, overwhelm you. This time when you start to shake he lets you come, gasping his name into his open palm and feeling him come soon after, panting softly in your ear as you hold yourself close to him. 

He kisses your exposed throat as he rises, sliding out of you and leaving you still aroused on the floor. He buttons his pants and offers you a hand to help you up, and when you pull up your trousers he reaches out to button them, pressing knuckles into your sensitive skin, making your eyes flutter closed.

“We should shower,” he says pensively at your upturned face, and you nod slightly. “You are my guest; you should go first.”

He finds you a towel and you stand in the running water for longer than you should, letting it cool your face, stinging from hot arousal and embarrassment, maybe. You can still feel his hand around your throat and you slide your hand between your legs just briefly, just enough to feel the ache. You stop yourself, wash yourself, shuffle awkwardly out of the bathroom and see Vasily on the worn couch in the other room. It’s the only seat with a view of the bathroom door, and he is looking steadily at you while you’re wearing nothing but a towel that now feels too thin.  
He stands up crisply and slides by you in the small hallway, not quite looking but large hand reaching out in passing and sliding cool fingers across your neck. The water comes on in the other room before you can move again, and get dressed.

When he comes out into the living room you aren’t quite sure what to do - he’s rubbing his hair with the towel, looking at you, otherwise fully nude. Whe he sees you with clothes on he starts.

“Ah, I may have misinterpreted -” he starts, but you stop him by standing, pulling him down into a hard kiss, dropping to your knees in front of him.

You take him in your mouth while he’s still mostly soft, sliding your tongue across the head of his cock and feeling him grow hard against your lips, filling your mouth with his not-insignificant size. He slides his fingers through your hair and pulls gently, pushes into you gently. You grab the backs of his thick, firm thighs and take him as deep as you can, tasting him as he comes, holding your head against him. 

He lets you go, pulls you up to him. He kisses you softly, tongue sliding against your wet lips, and you press your body against his, wanting to touch as much of him as you can. You kiss in the hall until you are both out of breath. When you break apart, you look him over, see his soft curves and deep lines and thick legs and blue eyes. His smile is the softest thing about him.

He gets dressed and you make dinner together in the tiny kitchen, every once in a while leaning in to kiss like it is natural, normal - okay. You eat in the living room, sitting so close your legs touch, talking casually. Occasionally he breaks off conversation and frowns, just a little, before coming back to you with his smile. You suspect it’s guilt, somewhat, or disappointment - you hope in himself and not in you, but you are put somewhat off balance by this thought.

The rest of the night is cozy and domestic in a way you never expected with Vasily, and you both grow sleepy on the couch, your head in his lap and his fingers combing through your hair absently as he reads above you, not a book about chess but a real novel. You fall asleep like this, aching only a little at the thought of leaving here tomorrow.


End file.
